


Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

by Whreflections



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They aren't nightmares, not mostly, but Bilbo can't count them as good dreams, either.  He's tried to convince himself before that it's better to have a little of Thorin with him in whatever way he can than none at all, but really, waking to a cold bed after he's just left a warm one inside his mind only leaves him feeling lost.  At 111 years old, in all honesty, he's not looking forward to reaching 112.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

**Author's Note:**

> So I was working on Walking Dead fic. And then Once Upon A Time Christmas fic. And then somehow I just stopped everything and wrote this, XD 
> 
> Oddly enough considering my massive LOTR obsession, this is my first 'real' Middle Earth fic. It's just a short depressing piece, but I hope some of you guys enjoy it, lol 
> 
> (...it probably says awful, awful things about me that writing this put me in a good mood, doesn't it? haha)

In his sleep, sometimes, it was like nothing had ever changed. 

He would fall asleep in Bag End only to become aware of inconsistent campfire heat, inadequate but less important when he took into account the absolutely consistent heat of the dwarf pressed against his back.  Thorin always felt heavy, behind him and above him and around him; he was an enveloping presence.  In the night his fur cloak covered them both, a welcome addition to the single blanket Bilbo had had when he slept alone. 

Not so many nights after they’d first come together, the low rumble of Thorin’s voice as it stirred his hair had pulled Bilbo back right from the brink of sleep. 

_“Do you still miss your bed?”_

_Bilbo shifted in his arms, nestling closer and holding off his answer, just for a moment.  “I have to admit, I miss the mattress, but-“  He could feel the protest rising in the proud dwarf’s frame, from his throat to his fingertips and Bilbo turned in his arms, staving it off with a kiss.  “That doesn’t mean I’d rather be in it now.  Not unless you were to join me.”_

_Thorin smiled, just a slight turn of his lips but it was so rare and so warm; Bilbo cherished every one of them he got.  “I suppose I’ll have to accept that.”_

_“Suppose you will.”_  

Thorin’s lips had quieted his again following that, though he had a good deal harder time staying quiet once Thorin’s warm, rough hand found its way down his pants.  After, though his fingers had tugged impatiently at Thorin’s belt, Thorin had only shushed him softly, kissing his forehead as he nestled Bilbo in close to sleep.  He was like that sometimes, selfless and seeking only to bring Bilbo to a state of hazy, sleepy warmth in his arms.  The way Bilbo saw it it was one more manifestation of the king in him, ever eager to look out for those under his care and so very less willing to look out for himself. 

Those dreams were the best, the purest, because they had _happened_ ; he could wake with the knowledge that no matter the cold mattress behind him, everything he’d dreamed had been, at one point, utterly real.  Thorin _had_ loved him, once.  There was power in truth that nothing could shake. 

It was the other dreams that sometimes kept him awake nights when he woke from them, sometimes sidestepping over the jagged line between nightmare and fantasy. 

He’d find himself in a room in Erebor, settled into a soft chair by a cozy fire in a room that was plainly far more hobbit-like than the dwarven city had ever seen.  There were bookshelves (a half eaten apple usually perched on one of them), and in the corner a desk was spread with old maps, Orcrist and Sting leaning against it in their scabbards.  The bed was grand, ornate in its craftsmanship and yet somber in its colors.   In all of it, he could see the way the two of them came together, overlapping rather than clashing, forming a life for themselves that was dwarven and hobbit-like and neither all at the same time.  It felt lived in, cherished, otherworldly in its domesticity compared to the life they’d shared on the road. 

In the most recent dream he’d had of that kind, he’d dreamed his way through warming the kettle, had tea almost prepared before he felt Thorin’s arms wrap around him from behind. 

_“There you are.  It would not kill you to join me in the throne room from time to time, you know.”_

_He knew, and still the thought gave him butterflies that bordered on shakes, unuttered fear that deep down, most of Thorin’s people had never truly excepted their Lord’s chosen consort.  Most could forgive him for being a man, he was sure, but far fewer would be likely to forgive his race._

_Thorin’s grip tightened, his beard brushing rough against Bilbo’s ear as his voice dropped.  “It is an honor to have you beside me.”_

He came awake from that one suddenly, maybe due to the tears pricking at his eyes, maybe the shortness of breath, maybe the light of the full moon through his shades.  It hurt like a carved out slice, sharp and throbbing all the more because even if it had never been said in exactly those words, he knew it for the truth.  They’d struggled, he’d never deny that; they’d had their troubles both before and after they chose each other.  He might have started out unsure of Bilbo’s worth, but Thorin had more than repaid that uncertainly with the admiration and loyalty that came after.  It didn’t matter how often they’d fought, didn’t even matter that so shortly before the end they’d been at odds.  All that matter, especially in the end, was the bond they’d formed, stronger than greed or anger or fear. 

Other times, the very end itself was all he could see.  Those dreams tended to be jumbled, disconnected like badly jointed wood.  He’d relive their last fight, hear all over again the rumble of fury on a voice he so loved.  Then it was over and he was no longer there, slung forward for a snapshot of battle and screams before he knelt at Thorin’s side.  He’d never been sure of Thorin’s exact injuries; in all honesty he hadn’t wanted to know their extent.  He’d known they were mortal from the moment he laid eyes on him, could see it in grey eyes that pooled heavy with regret when they met his own, hear it in the watery cough that left blood on Thorin’s lips. 

Bilbo had come as close to him as he dared, hating the necessary caution that held him back out of fear of causing pain to the man he loved.  Too much blood seeped from the edges of his armor, far too much, and though it was hopeless, even more hopeless than the cloths already bunched there, Bilbo pressed his fingers where he could, growing all the more pale when his gaze flickered down to see his light skin stained red.  On the day Thorin had first come to his home, he’d have fainted if he’d seen that battlefield.  At that moment, it was so very easy to make the rest of the world fade away, everything narrowed down to this man, his wounds and his final words.  All things considered, it wasn’t until later that he could realize with a hollow sort of satisfaction how far he’d come. 

They’d shared one last kiss, too brief and too weak but it had shook him with its power all the same.  When Thorin’s breath grew faint Bilbo was there to feel it, pressed against his side.  When it stopped altogether, long minutes passed before Gandalf was able to draw him away. 

Still, even those dreams weren't the worst.  That moment, he could see it behind his eyes even awake, had learned to live with it because he _had_ to or there would have been no living at all.  No, the worst, they were far more insidious than that because at first, they always seemed like nothing at all. 

_The sunlight woke him, dappling the floor like it did all those years before when he woke to find his house startlingly empty in a way that should’ve been welcome and yet somehow wasn’t.  It certainly wasn't empty anymore, all the more so since he took Frodo in._

_From behind him, Thorin’s arm squeezed tighter around his waist, hand slipping under his nightshirt to rub gently across his belly._

_“One hundred and eleven years.  I would almost think you’re trying to outlive me, Mr. Baggins.”_

_“And if I am?”  His voice was rough, so sleepy he knew  it was hardly more than a mumble but he knew too that Thorin loved exactly that.  He could feel Thorin’s smile against the back of his neck, just before his lips parted for the tiniest nip against Bilbo’s nape._

_“If you are…”  He paused, breath heavy against the side of Bilbo’s neck as he nuzzled in closer.  Bilbo squirmed, the scratch of beard against his skin having long ago begun to stir heat in his veins.  Old men they might be, but he burned for Thorin still, as he always had.  Their movements might be slower, their pleasure taken a little less frequently but in essence, nothing between them had changed.  In that, among many other blessings, Bilbo knew they were lucky beyond measure.  “If you are trying to outlive me, little one, then I must say, I certainly hope you succeed.”_

_He tugged Bilbo flat on his back, leaning over him to claim his lips before Bilbo could counter._

_“Happy birthday.”  The words were whispered so close to his lips still that he felt the vibration, felt it just as clear as he could the press of Thorin’s body against his, the expansion of his chest, the beat of his heart-_

He was immersed in sensation, lost in it until a gentle knock against his doorframe brought him crashing down. 

“Bilbo?  I know you won’t want to get up but you told me last night, you wanted a full day to yourself before the party.  Don’t worry, I know you might need enticing; I made some bacon but you’ll have to come to the kitchen for it.” 

Frodo’s voice had a teasing lightness at times that carried over still from his boyhood, a reminder both of the Took blood they both shared and of how very young Frodo still was, no matter how grown the boy insisted he was.  He’d always be a boy to Bilbo at any rate, always be the wild little thing that had scampered through fence rails and over garden walls, never coming home on time but always bringing something interesting.  Most days, no matter his hatred for mornings, he’d have woken to Frodo’s voice at least a little more willingly. 

He drew the blankets up around his shoulders, took a deep breath and closed his eyes only to find he couldn’t recapture the feel.  In the dream everything had been so very real, down to Thorin’s scent on his pillows.  Awake, even his memories seemed to fail him.  He couldn’t recall the scent as well as he once had, sometimes even struggled to remember how it felt to be held after so many years where no one had done it.  His mind swam with disconnected weak details, and he loosed his grip on his quilt.  Thorin was gone; there was no need to linger. 

After breakfast, after Frodo disappeared back into his room likely for a nap or a book, Bilbo shuffled through his old papers, a satisfying lump rising to his throat when his hands closed around the wooden frame he searched for.  The framed map seemed disproportionately older every time he looked at it; perhaps it had seemed such a magical thing in his youth that its age had gone unnoticed.  His fingers traced the parchment carefully, tingling at the memory that this was something they both had touched, something they _all_ had touched.  He had little left of that dissolved band that had been his family once, so little to show in comparison to how much room they took up in his mind and in his heart.  His thumb smoothed a stubborn wrinkle, gently, and for a moment the spring breeze he felt could’ve been decades old, could’ve been the same one he remembered on the day he’d first stumbled out his door. 

“I’m tired of outliving you, you know.  It’s exhausting.”  Oh, there’d been good times, to be sure.  There was Frodo, and he was glad he’d been there to see that through at least.  That didn’t mean he hadn’t wondered always how it might have been if they could’ve raised him together, how maybe he’d have felt more up to the task if they had.  Now, with Frodo grown enough to leave behind, the exhaustion he’d felt since Gandalf had loosened his grip on Thorin’s lifeless hand was finally beginning to take its toll.  If he could manage it, he’d make it back to Erebor, and there, under the mountain his love had so cherished, he’d let the weariness take him.


End file.
